Crazy Phangirl Dream
by Angels-Protegee
Summary: Pointless and senseless yet mildly entertaining drivel starring A-P and Erik in an unusual environment...don't act like you haven't had dreams like this before.
1. Number 117

**I had no intentions of posting this, as I'd only jotted it down for fun in the first place and because I thought it might amuse some readers on another site. But I figured, what the hey. It turned out to be quite the palette cleanser, buffing it up into something that wasn't too offensive and ridiculous. It's completely pointless and makes no sense whatsoever, but again, what the hey. For the sake of coherency, I did a little tweaking, but I really did dream this. Strong language and sexual humor, just so you know. If you like it, great! If not, that's fine too! **

**Besides, every phangirl loves to show off her own personal Erik. ;)  
**

"_In sleep he sang to me...in dreams he came_..."

"You rang?"

He materializes out of nowhere, the way things often do in dreams. I let out a sigh of relief I mask as a grumble of irritation. "Where the hell have you been?" I snap. "I've been calling you for six nights straight, and you never showed!"

Erik rolls his eyes. They're yellow, like I always picture even when he's described otherwise, but they never glow when I dream of him—a detail that always pisses me off. "You were already overbooked, woman! Maybe if you weren't so busy with Reverend Gerry or Professor Butler or that stupid mash-up make out session to AC/DC, there would have been more room for me, now wouldn't there?"

"Shut up." Yes, we always carry on like this. It's part of our relationship. "And who says there _wouldn't_ have been room for you?"

"You're psycho."

"It takes one to know one, babe." Wait a minute…where are we? I look around us and things are a little blurry before I realize we're at Starbucks. After hours. Awesome.

Erik takes a seat on a couch under the window and stretches out so I can't sit down. "You were off-key there, darling, when you called me," he informs me.

"Shut up, asshole," I bite back. "I'd just eaten a pint of Cherry Garcia I found in an elephant enclosure and my throat was gummy from the milk. You know I have trouble singing after ice cream."

"Ice cream in an elephant enclosure?" he asks, looking at me like I'm crazy. "And you _ate_ it?"

"It's a dream, dipshit."

He picks up a copy of _USA Today_ and examines the front page, saying, "You know, you're a real bitch tonight. Time of the month?"

I throw a bottle of non-dairy creamer at his head, but he dodges it. I never can hit him when I throw things at him, no matter how hard or how often I try. He stands up and goes behind the counter to the brewing machines. "Well, that answers _that_ question."

"Oh, please. You know if that were the case, I'd be having another Pennywise dream again."

He nods slowly. "Oh, right! Now I remember! What was it last time?"

"The fucker came out right of the son-of-bitching TV with those bullshit balloons!" I follow him behind the counter, but as is typical in my dreams it takes me twice as long to get where I want to go as anyone else. I open a package of beans that conveniently happens to be the one I'm looking for and pour it into the nearest hopper.

"Wait," he says, "I thought the TV thing was from _The Ring_?"

"Don't get me started on that one!" I tell him. "That's an hour and a half gone that I'll never get back, and in the end I still wound up awake all night with that creepy-ass videotape running through my head."

"I thought that was because you overdid it on the coffee again."

"I don't know, I can't remember. Fork over the half-and-half."

He holds the jug out of my reach. "Not so fast, you damn junkie. You don't need any caffeine."

I yank the jug out of his hands and say, "Too late, O.G. I already made it through a case of Red Bull while I was waiting on you."

"Really?" He looks me over, and dayum, how I love that stare! Can you say "option B?" "That's actually really impressive," he goes on. "Usually I have to get a step ladder and a snow shovel to scrape you off the ceiling, but I can't even tell you've had anything!"

At this point my subconscious reminds me that when I'm buzzed, I move at twice the normal speed, I have an even harder time remaining stationary, and I end up laughing hysterically over nothing at all. As soon as this crosses my mind, the symptoms kick in and I start dancing manically around the room, cackling madly. It's my Witch Hazel cackle—the one that annoys him so badly.

"Would you try to act like a sane person?" he complains.

I give him the finger and the fist-bump equivalent from _Friends_ for good measure. It's then that I notice this Starbucks is looking less and less like Starbucks and more like Central Perk. Well, that works, too.

"You know, you were the one bitching because it took me a week to get here," he says. "You obviously called me for a reason, now what is it?"

I stop dancing and say, "I want you to do something for me."

"We've been over this, baby doll," he replies, rolling his eyes again. "I can't Punjab Kenny Chesney for you."

"Not that! I want you to do the sexy swooshy cape twirl."

"Oh God, not again!" He throws himself down on the couch and kicks the coffee table away. "I ought to just stop wearing the damn thing!"

I stick my tongue out and tell him, "Can't do that, my love. My dream, my rules. You either wear the cape or go naked."

"You disgust me."

"Horseshit."

"My point exactly!"

"Quit your bitching," I say, "and do the sexy swooshy cape."

"I'd rather eat your ice cream," he tells me.

"Sexy swooshy cape!"

"In your dreams—no, wait, strike that—"

"Sexy swooshy cape," I threaten, "or I'll do my Woody Woodpecker impersonation."

He heaves a sigh and gets to his feet. "Sit down," he grumbles. "And do avoid fainting again from the epic awesomeness."

"I can't help it your badassery turns me on," I reply, plopping down on the couch. "And don't forget the growl!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." He does a cape twirl that looks highly reminiscent of the clip from _The View_ and as always, I can't keep from yelling out some sort of obscenity in rabid appreciation. I just don't happen to register what the obscenity is this time around.

He gives a sarcastic bow and sits back down before tearing a krueller it seems has been sitting on the table the entire time in half and dunking it in my coffee. "So when's the next nude scene I know you're going to put me in coming up?"

"I'm not sure yet," I tell him, taking my coffee away from him. "Those scenes are always in the serious stories, and I needed to work on something funny at the moment."

"Then why in the hell aren't you posting that Carlotta story you wrote months ago?" he demands. "What do you need me for? Wait—" he pauses. "You're not going to write _this_, are you?"

"Maybe," I say, taking a sip of coffee. Damn, it's already cold. Another sip. There we go! Hot again!

Erik shakes his head. "You're grasping at straws, toots."

"Oh, come on! The Phantom of the Opera at a freaking coffee house? That's priceless!"

"Meh, I've heard better. And you realize if you post this, your little fan base will never take you seriously again, right?"

I shrug. "Someone might get a kick out of it. Toss me a muffin."

"Get your own! Your legs aren't broken!"

I throw one of the couch pillows at him and miss—_typical!_—so I settle for whacking him upside the head as I walk past him to the pastries. I never can decide on just one at any coffee shop, so I take some of everything. Except for the fruit cake. Man, I hate that shit. I sit back down and dive in.

Erik eyes me and my baked goods suspiciously. "Eating for two, there?"

"You never know," I tell him. "The man harem has been in and out of here all week, pun intended."

Maskpalm. "You're wrong in the head, woman. You're just wrong in the head."

"It takes one to know one," I repeat, breaking a macadamia nut cookie in half and taking a bite. The macadamia nuts taste more like cashews, but whatever. "You know, you should have been here last night. After Reverend Gerry and Astronaut Ewan, Hugh stopped in."

"To pour more ranch dressing on your potatoes?" he asks with a resigned sigh.

"Hey, I'd forgotten about that one! No, actually he was in the Van Helsing getup, and it was his time of the month, if you get my drift."

"Great. So you're into bestiality, now?"

"Hell no, man! I cuss, I haven't been to church in a long time, and my mind is always in the gutter, but I still love Jesus!"

We sit twiddling our thumbs—literally, in my case—for a few minutes, then I hop to my feet and announce, "I'm bored with small talk. I want some music."

"Music, hell, we're at a coffee house," he says. "The only music we have is jazz and that elevator crap."

"Didn't you see the CD Warehouse next door?" I ask. "It just got there two seconds ago." I disappear into the store for a minute before coming back with a stack of CDs. "Let's see, we have Bon Jovi—"

"Pass. You've got me sick to death of 'Livin' On A Prayer.'"

"Party pooper. There's Styx…"

"Forget it! I don't care how many times you ask me, I'm not going to sing 'Renegade' for you!"

I heave a sigh of disappointment and carry on. "The Police?"

"Nah. Sting doesn't do anything for me."

"The Doors?"

He gives it a thought and says, "We'll come back to that one. Next!"

"Def Leppard?"

"You do it, and I'll be out of here so fast—"

"All right, shit! Keep your face on!"

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"The Beatles?"

"That one," he says. "Go for it."

I take the disc out of the case and set it on the counter, and it automatically starts to play. _All right, I can roll with it_…I skip a few tracks, how is unimportant, and "Come Together" blares through the coffee house. I glance over at Erik, and he gives me a sideways look. "If you start singing," he warns me, "it had better be the proper lyrics."

"Ah, come on, you know you love my rewrite," I wheedle.

"You're enough to give a man nightmares."

"Or make him propose on the spot," I add. I do a little shuffling step along to the music and settle into a groove. "Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to join me?"

"Contrary to what you believe," he tells me, "I don't exist to do your bidding. And anyway, I don't dance."

"I dunno…you do a damn nice mambo," I reply, rolling my hips ostentatiously.

He groans loudly. "Is this the part where you tell me to take off my pants?"

"It's like you're psychic!"

"Oh, spare me, you nympho." He looks around at the coffee house. "I actually think I saw this in a porno once."

I shake my head. "You saw something _like_ it in _Zack and Miri Make a Porno_," I correct him. "Big difference."

"Not really," he mutters, then, "What would your grandmother say if she knew you watched a movie like that?"

"That's what I kept thinking the entire time. Now quit changing the subject."

"Can we at least change the scenery? It's kinda weirding me out."

"Fine." Two seconds later, the coffee house is gone and we're in the middle of a library. "Better?"

"No."

I roll my eyes and then we're in the torture chamber…with a few additions. The coffee table has followed us, and there are some random bookshelves from the library. The lasso, of course, is on the ground by the iron tree.

Erik takes in our surroundings. "This could get kinky," he remarks offhand.

"Why?" I ask. "Because of all the mirrors?"

"That, and your props, and the fact that you're wired for sound, and I know what you like to do with ropes, and my presence makes your horns come out."

"Yeah, sure, just start stripping." No, wait, it seems we're both already naked…

He approaches with the lasso and I hold out my hands, letting him tighten it around my wrists and lead me over to the iron tree. He throws the rope over the branch and ties it in place, thus raising my arms above my head and leaving me at his mercy. And that's rather how I like it.

I wouldn't repeat the kind of crap we say to each other if I was paid to—it's seriously naughty stuff, children. As for what he does to me, use your own imagination. I sure do. The sensations aren't as powerful in dreams as they are in reality, but still…damn.

I see us reflected in the mirrors all around us and my knees start buckling beneath me. The rope is a necessity now; it's the only thing keeping me up. It suddenly vanishes and I fall into him as he lifts me. I wrap my limbs around him and say, "Watch the mirrors."

"I thought that was the point," he smarts off.

"I meant stay away from them, idiot! Smash me into one, and I'll fucking castrate you!"

The bookcase appears nearby and he slams me against it so the books start falling. Just like that, we're getting busy and it's raining Shakespeare—_why are all the books in my dreams either Shakespeare or Bloody Jack?_—and even in my sleep I feel my legs tingling. We move from the bookcase to the coffee table before rolling off onto the floor, and the party still hasn't stopped.

Sexual frustrations. What are you going to do?

It's odd, but every time I set the alarm clock, something in my subconscious wakes me up just before the alarm actually goes off. And I had set the alarm before I went to bed. I slowly feel myself coming to, and I'm already pissed about it. "No! Damn it! Hold on a second!"

"What?" he demands. "What did I do?"

"Not you!" I snap. "Keep going! Hurry up!"

Too late. Everything's already fading—_Come on! Five more minutes!_—I hear the telltale click before the alarm—_Don't do this to me, you piece of shit!_—then a loud annoying buzzing fills the room.

_Son of a bitch!_

I reach over and shut off the alarm before throwing my pillow across the room. Waking up is always the worst part of those dreams. I lay there for a few more minutes sulking, then put on my glasses and get out of bed. It's fine. It's all good. I mastered lucid dreaming ages ago.

He'll be back.

**I realize there's some odd jokes in here...if you're at all curious, shoot me a PM and I'll try to clarify without sounding like the kind of nutcase that nightmares are made of.**


	2. Number 236

**I know I should be working on updating "Echo of a Dream" right now, but I really needed some comedy. Fortunately, my subconscious was looking out for me. Same as last time; strong language and sexual humor...but nothing to merit a higher rating.  
**

I clear my throat in preparation to start singing and send out my summons, but before I can even open my mouth a voice cuts in, "Don't even think about it, missy! No singing from you until you stop spouting phlegm!"

I roll my eyes as Erik materializes, sporting an annoyed expression. "For starters, 'spouting' is an exaggeration," I reply. "And secondly, I'm not even sick anymore. The cold's been gone for days now, I just still have a bit of mucus in my chest."

He cringes, the damn pansy. "Can we please quit discussing your bodily fluids?"

"You got it, you sexy thing. Let's discuss yours."

"My God, you're perverted."

"Admit it, it turns you on."

"Oh, whatever." He looks around us and so do I. No coffee shop this time. In fact, it looks like Christmas dinner—turkey, dressing, cranberries, pie, the whole nine yards. "Well, this is random," he says.

"Are you surprised at this point?" I ask.

He shakes his head unaffectedly. "I think I'm getting used to you by now."

"You're sure about that?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

"So it wouldn't shock you if I said I just sent Jim Morrison packing five minutes ago and he didn't leave in the same condition he got here in?"

"Are you trying to say you're banging the Lizard King now?"

"No!" I tell him. "God, _I'm_ shocked! We just had a drinking contest."

"Oh." He ponders it, then says, "No, it doesn't shock me."

"And I knocked his ass in the dirt."

"Literally or figuratively?"

"Figuratively."

"Then no."

"Then when he tried to get fresh with me, I hit him over the head with a pool cue."

"I'm still cold, sweetheart."

Time to start inventing..."Then I turned into a werewolf and ate his heart."

"Well, this _is _a dream—"

"Oh, screw you!"

"Maybe later."

"Really?"

"Just sit down."

"As you command," I reply, giving him a servile bow as I draw out a chair. "Dominate me, my mastermind."

He heaves an exasperated sigh and takes his own seat at the table. "Sometimes I really do have to wonder about you," he says.

"Oh, you know you love me."

He sighs again, picks up a dish of mashed potatoes, and examines it minutely. "So what's up with dinner?" he asks.

"I dunno," I tell him, dipping a ladle into the nearby green bean casserole. "I just got the munchies, I guess."

"The 'munchies?' What exactly were you and Jim smoking with your whiskey?"

"I resent that implication! I just skipped lunch again today is all. I was reading and forgot all about it." I hand him the carving knife and say, "You do the honors, monsieur."

He takes the knife and picks up a meat fork, but before he can start sawing on the bird, it comes to life with a weird squawk, climbs out of the roasting pan, and runs from the table, lemon pepper rub and all.

"What the hell?" we yell at the same time. "Damn it, third time this week!" I add, getting to my feet. "Quit sitting on your ass and help me catch it!"

"You mean this has happened before?" he asks. "All right, now _that _surprises me."

"Shut up and help me before it gets away!"

We chase the sixteen-pound, basted and roasted, beheaded Butterball around the dining room for nearly ten minutes. For not having any feet, the little shit sure can run. Crawling under the table, pushing chairs aside, and eventually trapping it in a corner, I prepare to tackle it like a football when Erik throws the carving knife and skewers it, nearly spearing me in the process.

"Holy hell, you jackass!" I yell at him, forgetting about the turkey for a moment. "Just shoot me with a damn M-16 if you want to kill me!"

"Oh come on, I completely missed you," he fires back, stabbing the turkey with the fork and carrying it back to the table. "Stop being dramatic."

"I'm going to kick your ass one of these days," I promise him, plopping back down in my chair again.

"You couldn't kick your own ass, Half-Pint," he retorts.

I dip my hand into the nearest dish and fling a fistful of cranberries at him and—score! I actually hit him this time! He dodges some of it, but the cape takes most of the impact...the M-Fing sexy swooshy cape.

"God dang it, you bitch!" he yells. "I just got this dry cleaned!"

"Call me a bitch one more time and I'll stab you with a fork," I say, already accepting my victory as only natural.

"Oh sweet mother of Jesus, that's going to stain bigger than shit!" he rants, brushing the worst of it off with a napkin.

"And Raoul's the fop, you metrosexual asshat?"

"Did someone call me?" What? Where the hell did Raoul come from? I look up to see someone resembling Simon Bailey staring at me from across the table. Nope, he can't stay.

"Get lost," Erik and I tell him in unison.

He shrugs, takes a slice of pumpkin pie, and disappears.

"Damn it, this was my best cape!" Erik bursts out, looking as pissed as Ferdinand the bull when he sat on the bee. "Shit! Son of a bitch! What the hell was that for, anyway?"

"Oh yeah, man, yell at me some more!" I crow, flapping my hands in an excited beckoning gesture. "Come on, keep yelling! And give me that look like you're about to lasso me!"

"I'll do more than look like it," he swears. "Did you take dumbass pills today or something?"

"Nope, just the booze," I assure him. "But in copious amounts. I drank Jim Morrison under the table, for crying out loud!"

"So that's the problem," he remarks snidely. "You're just shit-faced."

"Look who's talking, you putz."

"Why I oughta—"

"Oh, bring it on, baby!" I say, leaning across the table towards him.

He catapults a spoonful of potatoes at me and splatters my glasses. I snap back in surprise and fall out of my chair, trying to clean them off. "Cheap shot, dickhead!" I gripe. "I have to see out of those!"

"Sorry. My hand slipped."

"You son of a—" I take off my glasses for safety's sake, reach up to the table, and start hurling dinner rolls at him like hand grenades. He retaliates by pelting me with glazed carrots and more potatoes. I launch the gravy boat at him and kersplat! He's the bastard child of Emeril Lagassi and Jackson Pollock.

"Hold it!" he shouts, holding up his hands in surrender. "Truce?"

I lower the pie I'm about to throw and agree. "Truce."

"Good." We sit quietly for a moment, then he leans over and pushes me face first into the pie.

I resurface, spitting pumpkin and spitting mad. "What the fuck?" I yell. "You said truce!"

"Correction, my foul-mouthed little friend," he replies. "I asked you for a truce. I never offered one up myself."

I shoot daggers at him, but already I'm cleaned off again. He, however, is still covered in food, and I don't bother to hide how smug I feel at that.

He brushes himself off and says, "Why am I not surprised? What are you doing here, anyway? As I recall, you have plenty to keep you busy."

"Yeah, too much," I complain, putting my glasses back on. "There's so much crap floating around my head, I can't focus on squat."

"And what do you want me to do about it?"

I sigh. "I dunno."

"You know, it's your own fault. You know how flighty your muse is, and you still just had to take on that extra project. You have to learn to say no, or at least quit writing novels when short stories would suffice."

"All right, I _do _know that," I tell him. "And now I've got half a dozen one-shots in mind, yet another story with Vivienne, and 'Black Roses.'"

"Oh yes, that one," he replies darkly. "You're still sure about that one?"

"Writing wouldn't be an issue if I could only focus," I assure him. "It's when I go to post that I'll start panicking."

"You're not going to chicken out, though, are you?"

"Of course not! What would Michelle say?"

"Atta girl! Now you're talking!" He gives up trying to clean himself off and gets rid of the cape and his jacket. "I'll be sending you the bill from the cleaners," he informs me.

"You started it," I tell him.

"How did I start it? You threw the first punch, so to speak."

"You said I couldn't kick my own ass," I remind him. "And I took that as a challenge."

"How much more immature can you get?"

"Not sure. I'll let you know after I've dropped a chandelier or two."

"You just _had _to go there."

"Isolated incident?"

"Damn straight, sugar. And don't you forget it."

I smile pleasantly, remembering the first time I wrote that line. What chapter was it? "Anger Management, Part One?" Yes, that was it! Boy, did I miss working on that story...

There's a series of squeaks and one loud squawk. "Where's the fop?"

Erik and I both jump at the same time, cussing in shock and surprise at the two ferrets and the macaw that appear—Bucky, Ricky, and Morocco, respectively. Morocco settles onto Erik's shoulder, but Bucky and Ricky scurry up into my lap.

"Hey, boys!" I say. "Long time, no see!"

"You know, I've been meaning to ask," Erik says. "What gave you the idea to get me ferrets in the first place?"

"Maxniss suggested pets, and ferrets were the coolest option," I reply, taking Ricky off my shoulder where he was trying to bite at my earrings. Damn my love of kooky dangles!

Oh, look! Studs!

"It'd be hilarious if these two ever met Gertie," I remark, not really meaning it.

"Do you really want to break her poor little guinea pig heart?" he asks. "She just couldn't compete with Bucky and Ricky."

"That's what you think, man."

I smirk as a ball of brown fur the size of a potato comes scurrying up along the table. She pauses next to me, takes one look at the ferrets in my lap, gives a snort of contempt, and moves to the end of the table in front of Erik. She sizes him up, her whiskers twitching disdainfully. "So you're the Phantom of the Opera?"

Erik stares at me, dumbfounded. "Are you serious?" he says. "She talks?"

"You kidding?" I reply, leaning back in my chair and putting my feet up on the table. "All my animals talk."

"And I'll bet those two are dumb as rocks," Gertie says. "No gift of gab."

Erik folds his arms defensively. "Morocco speaks," he shoots back.

On cue, the parrot squawks, "Where's the fop?"

Gertie blinks once. "Whoa. Cute trick. Three whole words...well played."

"Four," Erik replies sullenly. "He used to say Fonzie."

My train of thought prompts the _Happy Days_ theme song, but I kill it mid-chorus. Gertie looks around at the debris of the food fight and asks, "What happened here?"

"Nothing really out of the ordinary, Gertie turdie," I tell her nonchalantly.

She rockets across the table and looks up at me, her beady eyes glaring. "Really, human?" she demands. "Really? I swear, I'm about to bring on the pain if people don't quit calling me 'turd' just because it rhymes."

"Then how about because you're an ornery shit?" I ask.

"Eat me."

"Well, that's well within the realm of possibility," Erik chimes in.

She turns those beady eyes on him. "Seriously, who is this creep?"

"Your pig's not very friendly," he tells me.

"That's _guinea _pig to you. Pony up a carrot or two and I'll be your friend all day long."

Erik shrugs and, Morocco still perched on his shoulder, he leans forward and scoops up a handful of carrots from the nearest casserole dish. They'd been glazed and roasted when he was throwing them at me, but now they're fresh and raw.

Gertie is instantly alert, her eyes sharp and unblinking, her body still and focused, her attention riveted rather lustily on those carrots.

He slaps the table with the flat of his hand. "So _that's_ the look you get during _Law Abiding Citizen_!" he crows at me.

"No shame, dude!" I reply. "No shame! Have you _seen _that man's ass?"

"I prefer not to answer that question." He absently taps the table with a bit of carrot, and Gertie breaks her concentration trying to get to it.

"Well, you're right," I agree. "Depending on which version of you we're talking about, that ass is parked in that very chair right now."

"Can we get off my ass already?"

"Aw, not fair," I whine. "I haven't even gotten on it yet."

Gertie loses patience and suddenly chomps down on Erik's finger. "Shit!" he curses, dropping the carrot. "You little bastard, I ought to drop kick you to Timbuktu!"

"Tempt not a hungry guinea pig," she tells him unaffectedly, her mouth full of carrot.

Bucky and Ricky climb up my legs to the table and move in to investigate what she's nibbling on. She clamps it in her jaws and shoots off to hide behind the overturned gravy boat. The ferrets take it in stride and shimmy around poking their noses in the rest of the food.

Erik stretches lazily and says, "Work your mind magic and get me out of these clothes already. I feel like a tablecloth from the set of _Animal House_."

"Sure thing," I reply, trying to hold back a devilish grin. Seconds later he's out of those clothes, all right. I simply neglect to put him in fresh ones.

"Oh for the love of—" He rolls his eyes. "Do you mind?"

"No, not really," I tell him, admiring the view. And damn, it's prime real estate.

"Jesus Christ," he grumbles. Then he sighs and spreads his arms demonstratively. "All right," he says. "Enjoy yourself."

I'm halfway out of my chair before he adds, "You can look, but you can't touch."

I fall back in disappointment. "Where's the fun in that? I have to suffer through that every time _300 _comes on!"

"Oh, you poor baby," he says in mock sympathy. "My heart is just breaking for your trials."

"Well, it ought to," I tell him dryly. "Just how many long, cold, lonely nights have you spent lately? Thirty to fifty years worth?"

"Shut up and give me some clothes."

I give in and imagine a new suit back onto him and he pops his collar arrogantly. I laugh a bit and say, "Feeling cocky now?"

"You only wish you could be this fucking cool, babe," he replies.

"Right. Like I have to wish for that to come true." I lean back again and say, "Sing to me."

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm not your performing monkey?"

"Actually, you are, because we're in my imagination, and in my imagination you always do what I want you to. I just love arguing with you about it beforehand. Go on, now. Sing."

He sighs. "And what shall it be, you cruel woman? One of my many serenades? A Bryan Adams ballad? That Garth Brooks song you're so in love with?"

"Nah," I reply. "I'm hammered. I'm in a partying mood." I recall my earlier guest and say, "I'll give you your intro." A guitar automatically starts playing-dun dun-dun dun-dun dun-da-da-da dun dun-dun dun-dun dun-da-da-da...

"Aw, hell yeah," Gertie pipes up, emerging from the gravy boat and bobbing up and down on her teeny feet.

We all jump in at the same time. "Yeah, keep your eyes on the road, your hand upon the wheel..."

I start dancing in my chair and Erik gets up and grooves along himself, sending Morocco flapping agitatedly from his shoulder to land back on the abandoned seat. "Yeah, we're goin' to the road house, gonna have a real...good time..."

Ditching the chair, I get up on the table, knocking more things over and still dancing crazily. "Let it roll, baby, roll!"

It feels oddly as though someone is shaking me, but I'm the only one on the table...I ignore it and keep singing. "Let it roll, baby, roll!"

"Come on, wake up..." The voice sounds so far away, but getting clearer as the music starts to fade.

"Let it roll..."

"Get up!"

My eyes snap open and I mutter the rest. "All night long." Next to the bed, Mom is giving me a funny look. "What?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Nothing."

"Right. Well, come on. We've got to get shit done today."

I nod and put on my glasses.

Later on, cleaning out Gertie's cage, I start to laugh to myself. The furball is munching away on a few carrots, and she's got that look again.

"What's so funny?" Bro asks.

"Nothing. Just something I dreamed."


	3. Number 362

**I'm back, and I bring you more comedy! I spent a few days fiddling with this one so it wasn't quite so disjointed and...erm...raunchy as it could have been, but *shrug* You know the drill, read at your own risk, even more language, some angst, plenty of obscure punch lines, lots of innuendo (and a little more than that).**

**You know, this is officially the weirdest thing I've done so far...  
**

_"Angel of Music, hide no longer! Come to me, strange angel!"_

Three seconds later… "So I'm 'Angel' again, am I?"

I heave a sigh. He's a sight for sore eyes as always, and at the moment he's sore with me. I have to say, though, the feeling is mutual. "I finally finished," I tell him.

"Well, bully for you," he gripes, folding his arms a la Lon Chaney and tapping his foot. "I can't believe you have the nerve to call me back here after pulling a stunt like that—"

"You'll get over it," I reply. "Someone had to do it."

"Someone had to do it? Have you lost your mind? You turned me into a violent, psychotic sociopath!"

"Correction, smart ass. I turned you _back _into a violent, psychotic sociopath."

He glares at me, and for once I'm unmoved by the murderous stare. Well, for the most part. "You managed to set ninety percent of two entire forums against me, you bloody turncoat!" he bitches. "I have no idea what nightingales have to do with doodly squat, but a few of you deranged females wanted to give me the 'Rossignol treatment.' Care to explain that one?"

"Not really," I say. "But I'd steer clear of the Big Apple for awhile if I were you."

He lets out a snort. "Then who is going to warn Hugh Panaro?"

"He's got nothing to worry about. They won't let her back into the Majestic anymore."

With a grumble, he drops into a chair. "Fine and dandy," he says, "but what am I going to do? They're still coming after my hide thanks to you."

"I guess you're going to have to hide out at my place until things settle back down," I tell him.

"You _have _lost your mind!" he bursts out. "I don't trust you farther than I can spit! And what the _hell, _is this I hear about 'Raoul love all day long?' Huh?"

"You're damn fucking right, Raoul love!" I shoot back, poking him in the chest with my forefinger. "Raoul just so happens to be awesome, you evil prick! He's brave, kind, loyal, sweet, noble, he has a fucking _conscience, _he's not a sadistic twisted disgusting _psycho—"_

"Well, who wrote it that way, missy?" he demands, slapping my hand aside. "God, I could lasso you right now, I'm so pissed at you!"

"Come at me, bro!"

"What, no perverted sexual innuendo?"

"Ha! You're lucky I haven't gelded your ass, pal!"

"I can't believe you did that to me!"

"You think I _enjoyed _it?" I snap. "How do you think it was to have to write that and have it in my head all day, every day for all those months? I hated your fucking guts, man! I fantasized about using crocodile shears on you, and you know any form of torture device scares the holy shit out of me!"

"That's all you can think about, isn't it?" he asks. "You're just obsessed with my junk, you nympho."

"Shut up!" I tell him. "I could hardly stand it! I've never been so glad to finish a project! I couldn't get all that shit out of my head, and on top of everything else it almost screwed me up bad! You have no idea how close I came, how badly I was hurting, and how I was barely holding on, but here you are, worried about someone having the balls to go there! Things got fucked up enough, so I don't need your shit!"

He sits there mulling it over a moment, and I just stand there scowling at him, too pissed to speak. It's a good scowl, and I've parted crowds with it. Finally, he says, "All right, I understand now."

"Do you?" I demand. "I mean it, this conversation almost never had the chance to take place, I was that bad off."

"Have you forgotten who you're talking to?"

"Sometimes, Erik, I wish I could."

"Careful, you're about to plagiarize yourself."

"Shut up." It's a lot sulkier this time around.

"Fine, then, I'm sorry I'm such an insensitive asshole."

"You mean it?"

"I guess I do."

I pout a little more, then nod. "Apology accepted." He stands up and holds out his arms dutifully, and I go get a hug. He holds me tighter and rubs my back soothingly, and I start to relax. _But I'm still pissed at him…_

"Do you want me to squeeze your ass?" he offers.

"You're a real piece of work," I say, not looking up.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

I pause, then say, "Yes."

He gives me a nice grope and I've already started to forgive him for being such a total dick. God, I'm pathetic. He turns me loose again and asks, "So what am I here for now?"

"You're here to cheer me up," I inform him. "Like I said, I was beyond miserable for months and didn't even have the heart to indulge in any Gerik fantasies."

He cocks an eyebrow as though he doesn't believe me.

I sigh. "All right, then, I was a lot less inclined than usual and instead went for shitloads of impure thoughts about Alex Rover."

He shakes his head. "And the logic behind your so-called wall of smash was?"

"Pure animal lust, baby."

"Ah. Ok."

There's a bit of a silence, then he asks, "Do you just have a thing for the characters, or…"

I follow his train of thought—well, I would, wouldn't I? "That's a tricky one. It doesn't matter, ultimately, but I think the character helps a bit. And the Indiana Jones look is sexy as hell."

"Which explains why you do backflips for Van Helsing."

"Well…no, you're right, that's part of it too."

We sit there some more doing absolutely nothing. Hell, I don't even know where we are, and I really don't care to imagine any surroundings for us. It's not exactly high on my list of priorities. "I got to the bottom of my hand fetish," I say, purely to break the silence.

"Good for you," he replies, then it's quiet again.

"Do you want me to explain it?"

"Not really."

Silence.

"The weather sucks lately," I offer.

"Sure does."

Silence.

I sigh again. "You bored?"

"Yeah…You?"

"Yeah…What do you want to do?"

"I don't know. What do you want to do?"

"Uh…you?"

He thinks it over for awhile, then shrugs. "Sure, all right."

"Really?"

"Why not?"

My enthusiasm returns in full measure, and quite a bit of it is blurred…_damn it…_but there's a whole lot to do with those hands. "You know, the hand thing pops up a lot in my writing," I remark when we're finished.

"I'm not surprised," he tells me. "I think you'd be satisfied if that was all you ever had of me."

"Nah," I assure him. "You annoy the hell out of me, but I love ya, you sexy beast."

"Why thank you. You're not so bad yourself, you crazy girl."

"Thanks—I think."

We continue to sit there, still idly caressing each other. Hey, I can have a few more romantic dreams on occasion! He plays with my hair a lot, and I love it when he does that…and when he strokes my leg…and when he kisses my neck…and when—

"Sheep!" I yell.

He nearly jumps out of his skin, startled. "What the hell?"

"Sheep!" I repeat, pointing. Somehow, we've ended up in the middle of a field of—yep, sheep. Turkeys, guinea pigs, now this? What the hell?

He's dumbfounded, and I don't blame him. "You're not Welsh," he accuses. "What's going on here?"

"I don't know…but it makes me think of Lambchop," I tell him.

"The sock puppet?"

"Don't be making fun of Lambchop! I used to love that show! Oh my God, we used to piss Mom off so bad with the Song That Never Ends—"

"Don't you dare start that!" he warns me, looking horrified at the thought of it.

"I think you're safe for now," I say. "But don't get on my nerves, or I'll let you have it." I look around again at the meadow, only it's become a grassy hilltop, with a cool breeze blowing and the sound of the ocean in the distance. "I know where we are now!" I say. "This is one of my favorite daydreams!"

"What, lying buck naked in the grass with the Phantom of the Opera?"

"Well, that too. But that's not what I meant. It's just a peaceful place, isn't it? The wind, the surf, the open sky, the tranquility…"

"Oh shit, beetle!" he bursts out, slapping at a bug on his arm.

I roll my eyes. "Way to kill the mood, Casanova." Indeed, the moment has lost its charm. The grass is prickly, the air is chilly, and the sound of the sea is steadily more somber.

"Sorry to spoil your fantasy," he gripes, "but can we please go somewhere warmer, or at least get me some clothes? Valuable things are getting chilled."

I give him my most wolfish grin. "Shrinkage?" I ask.

"Shut the hell up! You know _damn _good and well there's nothing wrong with the equipment! Not a damn thing!"

"Sheesh, you're such a sensitive little tart, aren't you?" I cave, though, and take control of the dream again, and just like that he's fully dressed, minus the cape. I keep that for myself. "What do you think?" I ask.

"You're too short for it," he replies. "You look like a walking stick wearing a circus tent."

"Then how about now?" I stand up, with what seems like twenty miles of black cape hanging off my shoulders, and attempt a swoosh nowhere near as awesome as his on an off day.

He bursts out laughing at me. "There's no way you can pull that off, string bean," he says.

"Well, if it fit, I'd make some progress," I tell him, looking down at the cape. "You know, this doesn't look half bad on me."

"It doesn't look that good on you, either."

"Whatever. Hey, you know what _would _look good on me?"

He shoots me a suspicious look and asks, "What?"

I beam at him. "You."

"I can't argue with you there, but you already got yours today, madam."

"But I want it again!"

"It's the same the world over," he says nonchalantly. "They all want Erik to shag them unconscious."

"Damn straight!" I tell him. "Now come on and give me the fifteen-minute triple!"

"You think you can handle that?"

"You kidding? Bitches be like Energizer bunnies! They keep going and going and going and—"

"Yo, dawg, slow your roll."

I can't help it. I crack up. "Ghetto Phantom is going to be priceless!" I crow.

"Ah, another travesty in the works," he sighs. "Remind me to never leave you three alone in the same room."

"Adri, Angie and I are like the Three Musketeers! All for one and one for all! _Déviants pour la vie, mon amour!"_

"You're insane," he says.

"And you're changing the subject. Put me through the drywall, now."

"What drywall?" he asks, flinging his hand out to the outdoors. "Where are you going to find drywall out here?"

"Have _you _forgotten who _you're _talking to?" I retort, and before you can say sweet seduction, boom! Four walls begging to be smashed all to hell. "Now what's your excuse?"

"I have a headache."

"Aw, horseshit."

"You just had in your mouth what I wouldn't want on my shoes."

"Don't jump me about my foul mouth. What about all that 'damn you, curse you' crap?"

"I was pissed, thank you."

"No, thank _you._"

He pauses, thinking, then says, "You know, I don't want to know."

"You sure? It's a good story."

"I'm sure."

"Good. Then commence righteous plowing."

"You just don't quit, do you?"

"Like an Energizer bunny."

"And rabbits scare the shit out of me."

"Now look who's got it in his mouth!"

"Oh, for the love of—"

"The only thing I want," I sing, "the only thing I need—"

"Don't they have support groups for whackjobs like you?"

"The only thing that looks good on me…is you!"

"You're worse than a bitch in heat!" he exclaims.

I punch him in the shoulder. "I told you not to call me a bitch!" I snap.

"Damn, woman, get your bony knuckles out of my arm!" he yells, rubbing where I hit him.

"Damn, dude, get your arm off my bony hand!"

"You really are insane!"

"And it takes one to know one!"

"You turned half my fan base against me! One of them actually wanted to shoot my dick off!"

"Trust me, I had something else in mind."

"I _don't _trust you!"

"Well, you know what they say."

"No, I'm afraid I don't!"

"People that don't trust people can't be trusted!"

"You are so fucking annoying!"

"Yes! Cuss me some more!"

"What, and a masochist? You're one sick bitch!"

I punch him again. "What did I tell you about calling me a bitch?"

"And what did you just say about cussing? Make up your mind already! Shit!"

"Are you as turned on as I am?"

"Jesus Christ, girl, get your ass over here right now, because I'm going to—"

Censored! Censored!

We lunge at each other like wild animals, tearing at each other's clothes, but once again I keep the cape. The adrenaline from the argument makes it that much more intense…you know, the whole love-hate thing. I can't tell if we're still pissed at each other or caught in the heat of the moment, but either way—holy shit! It's a different kind of Rossignol treatment going down! And down…and down…and…

Five minutes later—

Censored!

Now I'm pinned between his body and the wall with my legs around his waist and his arms holding me up. I dig my fingernails into my palms as I hang on for dear life, pressing my face into his shoulder and biting my lip so hard I can taste blood and…

Five minutes later—

Censored!

We're a tangled heap on the ground, limbs still entwined and the cape wrapped around the both of us and we _still _haven't let up yet. And oh my God, it's _awesome! _I can almost literally see stars in front of my eyes and hear our labored breathing, and I cling even tighter as—

Censored!

By unspoken agreement, it's his turn. We roll together so I'm on top and I love the look on his face when I—

You guessed it…censored!

Finally, we give up and just lay there, staring off into space and still trying to catch our breath. All I can say is "Wow."

"Yeah," he agrees.

I don't remember ever taking off the cape, but we're laying on it like a blanket, sweat pouring off our bodies. "Wow," I say again. "It hasn't been like that since…I don't even know when!"

"Just too bad it's all in your head," he says.

_Damn it, don't remind me!_

Too late; I'm waking up. I feel…rested, for the first time in months, and it's a thought that makes me smile. I'm also sweating a bit, and _that's _a thought that makes me want to go back to sleep.

Instead, I get up and head for the bathroom, in dire need of a cold shower. _God, I love those dreams…_


End file.
